September 19, 2007

Okay, I know you’re not supposed to drink and drive, but lately, I can’t even ride in a car without a little whine. Tom and I drove to the lake a couple of weekends ago. It’s about an hour and a half from here, and as our journey progressed, I could feel burning pain settling into my hips, back and legs. It increased with each mile, and I spent the last half of the drive in tears, arranging my pillow and trying to find a comfortable position. The position I found was on my hand and knees on the passenger seat, facing backwards (“Don’t you DARE laugh at me,” I told Tom). Hey, whatever works. So there I was on all fours, my face near the window, hair blowing crazily in the wind. If I’d had a collar on, someone would surely have mistaken me for a sheepdog.

When we got to the lake, I walked around for a while, and started to feel better. Soon the pain level was back to “simmer.” But these experiences make me almost phobic about repeat performances. Today, I’m driving to Columbus to see my mother, and I’m really afraid of the consequences. I try to think positively about all of this, but there’s never any way of knowing if I’m going to be out of commission for a few days afterward or if I’ll be just fine. I think it’s the not knowing that bothers me most. But hey, that’s Fibro. We’ll see how it goes.